


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by Teegar



Series: Short Stories Featuring Ensign Chekov [9]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 18:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17965607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teegar/pseuds/Teegar
Summary: While working on repairs on an astrological monitoring station with Mr. Spock, Ensign Chekov experiences a sudden and mysteriously violent bout of homesickness.





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, Chekov fandom was very, very, very small. Well, at least, the number of those of us writing and publishing Chekov fanfic in English was pretty tiny. Most of us knew each other. There were three circles of writers producing almost all of the Chekov stories that showed up in fanzines for the majority of the time I was active in Zineworld. My circle was small enough that we could give each other nice Chekov-themed presents for Christmas. One of our number had taken a class on book-binding and made little leather-bound copies of a story one of us had written. One commissioned an artist to create a special Chekov paper doll for us. Fancy stuff like that.
> 
> This story was my present to the group one year. Actually, it started out as the collection of six portraits of Chekov in traditional Russian costume that you're going to see interspersed with the text. That was going to be it -- just a little booklet of pictures of Chekov in costumes. Then I decided it would be nicer if I could think up a story to tie all those costumes together somehow... And then, of course, the thought occurred that since this was supposed to be a Christmas present, it should be a Christmas story...
> 
> And yes. Yes, it most certainly would have been much, much easier if I had sat down and written a Christmas story first and THEN come up with six color illustrations for that... but who wants do do things the easy way?

## I'll Be Home for Christmas

  
_by Teegar Taylor_  


 

"If you find this task distasteful, Mr. Chekov..." Although Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov knew that Vulcans were not emotional beings, there did seem to be a definite edge to Mr. Spock's voice. "...then you should have refused this assignment."

"Sir?" The ensign turned around from the console where he was working and blinked at the science officer. Only a metre of empty space separated them. The two _Enterprise_ officers were inside the tiny repair compartment of an automated astrological monitoring unit. They were trying to find and correct the fault in the unit's navigational systems that was causing it to drift off its predetermined course. 

"At irregular intervals you are uttering prolonged, audible breaths, Ensign," the science officer informed him. "I believe this usually called 'sighing' -- a sound indicative of a depressed emotional state."

Chekov felt his cheeks going pink. Being caught in an emotional state in front of a Vulcan was as uncomfortable as being caught swearing in front of a priest.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "I was not aware I was doing so. I will make an effort to discontinue."

"That would be much appreciated, Mr. Chekov."

"Yes, sir." Chekov turned back to the navigational controls in time to notice that his stylus was floating away again. The work pod inside the monitoring station was equipped with artificial lights and environment to accommodate temporary humanoid occupants, but not with artificial gravity.

Chekov wasn't fond of working in zero-g. It made one feel somehow insubstantial. The capsule's drab machinery and lack of gravity only heightened the ensign's melancholy.

Chekov didn't realize that he'd sighed again until he heard Mr. Spock clear his throat behind him.

"Ensign," the Vulcan began coldly, "I am aware that by being here you are missing the special entertainments scheduled for this Christmas holiday..." 

"That is not it, Mr. Spock," he assured his superior quickly. "I volunteered for this assignment. I am not at all reluctant to be assisting you."

The Vulcan didn't look convinced. "Christmas seems to be a time of great emotional upheaval for natives of Earth," he observed critically.

"Yes, sir." For a moment, Chekov felt abashed for the entire human race. "However, it is primarily a Western religious celebration. Since I am neither a Westerner nor religious, the holiday is of reduced significance to me."

Spock raised one dubious eyebrow at this explanation, but returned to his work without further comment.

Chekov clipped his stylus, which was on the verge of floating into orbit again, securely onto its magnetic holder and studied the computer log he'd pulled on screen. Finding himself unexpectedly half-way through another sigh, the ensign held his breath then pretended to be clearing his throat.

"Even for those with no particular attachment to the holiday," Spock's voice said, behind him, "I have observed that the Science Division's annual Christmas Party is an occasion that many on the _Enterprise_ eagerly anticipate. Most look on duty assignment that preclude their attending that function as hardships."

As true as that might have been two weeks ago, his recent breakup with Ensign Leigh Ann Howard from Biochemistry had put a definite damper on that particular party for Chekov. 

"I was not planning to attend this year, Mr. Spock," he replied, "under any circumstances."

When there was no response to this from the other side of the room, Chekov paged back to the top of the column of figures he was examining. He punched in an order for the computer to cross-reference instances of navigational equipment failure with the utilization of the station's spectral analysis equipment. He watched the screen as the computer painstakingly checked and reported on each coincidence. This was the fifth sub-system he'd checked thus far. Tedious work, perhaps, but not really the sort of thing he minded under normal circumstances...

Chekov squeezed his eyes closed in embarrassment, hearing his own sigh seconds after it had left his lips.

"If your recent disassociation with Ensign Howard is affecting your concentration..."

The ensign grimaced. Thoughts of Ensign Howard, who was undoubtedly at the Christmas party right now with Lieutenant James Patterson -- who, Chekov had found, much to his displeasure, Howard had been dating concurrently -- brought several strong emotions to the surface, but none that would make him sigh.

"No, sir," Chekov was quick to reply. "I was not thinking about her."

Deciding it might help to keep himself as busy as possible, Chekov picked up his stylus and pad and began to work on the possibility that there was a numeric pattern that linked the station's misplotted coordinates. However, ignoring the great feeling of melancholy that was near to overwhelming him was like trying to ignore someone tapping at your cabin door at irregular intervals. 

Chekov released another long breath. "Oh, God."

"Ensign Chekov, despite your claim that you are not a religious person, you are now sighing and calling on the name of a deity."

"Yes, sir. I am very sorry, sir." Without intending to, Chekov finished his apology off with yet another sigh, garnering him a cold look from the Science Officer. "I don't seem to be able to stop myself."

"So I have observed," Spock replied pointedly. 

"I simply feel... I feel..." Chekov faltered in discussing his emotions under the Vulcan's unemotional gaze. "It's rather embarrassing, sir."

"Oh." Spock turned back to his work.

"I feel homesick," Chekov blurted out, deciding it was better to tell the truth than let his superior officer guess something much more embarrassing. "Terribly, terribly homesick. I don't know why. I have not felt this way in years."

"As I said previously, this particular holiday does seem to be a most unfortunately emotional time for most Humans native to Earth."

"That does have something to do with it," Chekov admitted. "Before we left, someone was playing a song in the officers' lounge on deck five. I cannot get it out of my mind. I believe it is an old English carol. The words were, 'I'll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.'"

"Scarcely an old English carol, Ensign," Spock corrected. "The song was of twentieth century American origin."

The ensign shrugged. "All I meant to say was that it was an old Christmas song written in English."

"Then that's what you should have said, Mr. Chekov," the science officer asserted fastidiously.

"Yes, sir," Chekov agreed -- although he thought that the damned thing could have been written last week by a Martian for all the difference it made. "There was something about the words..." 

"Ensign," the Vulcan interrupted firmly, "I think your distressing emotional state might be improved if you focused your analytic powers on the task at hand and left contemplation of popular sentimental melodies for a more appropriate time and place."

"Yes, sir," Chekov replied dutifully, turning back to his work. 

'Concentrate on something else,' he ordered himself -- as though that wasn't exactly what he'd been trying to do for the past hour.

Perhaps Mr. Spock was right. Perhaps this was just Christmas catching up with him. All the nostalgic imagery of snow scenes... Chekov bit his lip just in time to stifle another sigh.

'I'll place a call to my mother as soon as we return,' he promised himself silently.

Somehow, this didn't seem to be enough. Some part of his brain desperately wanted to _be_ there -- to be home. Chekov closed his eyes...

...And suddenly he _was_ there. The endless blue sky and white, snow-covered plains of Siberia ranged before him. Chekov blinked, but the scene didn't go away. This was certainly the most realistic daydream he'd ever had. Surrendering to it for a moment, he pulled his _papaha_ \-- a large fur hat -- down over his ears and was glad of the heavy _tulup_ \-- sheepskin coat -- he was wearing. 

  
  


As he stood in the stirrups to get a better look at the scene in front of him, his insatiable longing to return home resurfaced.

He turned the huge chestnut-colored horse he was riding around and headed west.

'This is ridiculous,' he thought to himself. 'Riding horseback, I'm impossibly far from my home."

...And yet, when he opened his eyes again, Chekov found himself walking through the streets of Moscow. It was not, he noted immediately, the Moscow he knew. The buildings on this street were familiar, but the details were all wrong.

For one thing, there were too few buildings and many of them were too small. Another inconsistency was that it had been centuries since the night streets of the great city had been illuminated by gas-lit street lights. 

'It looks Moscow before the second World War,' Chekov thought to himself. He then revised his estimate several decades backwards as a man driving a horse-drawn wooden cart rattled past him. 'Perhaps a long time before the second World War.' 

Looking down, he saw that he was now attired in the traditional long red coat of Caucasian Cossack. He noted that he was also fully armed. At his side hung a large black pouch full of papers with official looking seals on them.

  
  


'If I am dreaming,' he wondered to himself, 'then why am I dreaming myself on duty?'

...When he opened his eyes again, the scene had changed. He was now in a wardroom filled with men in white jackets sitting around a large, beautifully set table. This room also was lit by the gentle glow of gaslight. On the wall, in huge oval frames hung tinted pictures of Nicholas II and his Tsarina. With that clue, Chekov was able to identify the costumes of the men seated around him as pre-World War I Russian naval uniforms. He was also wearing an officer's jacket.

  
  


The officer immediately to his right rose. "A toast, gentleman," the unidentified man called. "To the man who will lead us to victory."

As the men along both sides of the table raised their glasses to him, Chekov smiled. 'Much better.'

"The impudence of those Japanese," the gnarled officer to his left complained. "Do they seriously think they can defy the finest fighting force in the world?"

"The Japanese?" Chekov repeated. "We are fighting the Japanese?"

"Mr. Chekov?" a familiar voice asked from behind him.

"Yes, sir," the first officer replied. "The name of the _Varyag_ is not one they will soon forget."

"The _Varyag_?" The _Varyag_ had been one of the first Russian vessels destroyed in the disastrous Russo-Japanese War. A vision of an old photographic print of this vessel sinking beneath the surface of the cold waters off the North Korean port of Chemulpo immediately sprang into the ensign's mind. "What is the date?"

"Mr. Chekov," the voice from behind him repeated insistently.

"The date, sir?" The officer next to him paused to think a moment. "It's the eighth, I believe. February..."

"February 8, 1904," Chekov finished for him. "Oh, no..."

"Mr. Chekov!"

Suddenly recognizing the voice of his superior officer, Chekov turned....

...Only to find himself standing in a snowy courtyard. Mr. Spock stood in front of him. However, the Science Officer was inexplicably attired in the blue uniform and white powdered wig of one of Peter III's Holstein guardsmen.

"Are you experiencing some sort of difficulty, Ensign?" the Vulcan inquired.

Looking down, the navigator found to his surprise that he was similarly outfitted and standing at the end of a rank of guardsmen.

  


"Yes, sir," he replied. For a moment, though, the ensign was at a loss as to how to explain his predicament intelligibly to his superior. "I believe I am hallucinating, Mr. Spock," he settled on at last.

A strange look crossed the Science Officer's face.

"Interesting," Spock responded, frowning as his eyes moved slowly about the courtyard with mounting disapproval. "Do you perceive yourself to be in a Pre-Surakian Vulcan setting?"

"No, sir. We appear to be in..." Chekov double-checked the surrounding architecture and armaments to narrow the options. "...St. Petersberg, I believe. Old Earth. Circa 1762."

"Hmm. Most disturbing." The Vulcan crossed his arms; his frown deepening. " Ensign, we seem to be victims of a telepathic attack of some sort. What appears to be occurring from your perspective?"

"Nothing right now." The navigator turned to see columns of evenly-spaced men behind him. "It looks as though we're in the middle of a military inspection."

The Science Officer nodded and scanned the courtyard. "Remain as you are for the moment."

"Yes, sir."

The bewigged Holstein guardsmen were as oblivious as the cattle with which they shared a name as the Vulcan walked slowly up and down the length of the courtyard before them, leaning forward and peering quizzically at intervals like a near-sighted person who had lost their their vision aid.

Chekov was beginning to grow restless when he saw a beautiful woman looking through one of the windows onto the courtyard.

She had long, chestnut-brown hair and was dressed at the height of elegance for this time period. Could this be the future Catherine the Great - now simply the neglected and abused wife of Peter III?

Noticing the ensign's stare, the lady smiled down at him.

"Mr. Chekov," Spock reproved as the navigator returned her smile. "Until I have made a determination as to who or what is affecting our mental processes, I wish you to refrain from interacting with anyone you think you may be seeing."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Spock." The ensign obediently turned his attention forward as the Science Officer came to stand in front of him with the fingers of one hand pressed to his temple.

The navigator was quite glad that the duties of a modern soldier did not involve very much standing at parade attention while ankle deep in snow. Worse than not being very comfortable, it wasn't very interesting... Although, Chekov decided, the fact that he and Mr. Spock were currently under some mysterious sort of psychic attack should in itself be sufficiently blood-stirring to focus the mind...

Still the ensign had to bite his lip to keep from falling into another sigh. 'I should have stayed on the ship and gone to that stupid party..." he decided silently.

...Then suddenly, he _was_ at a party -- a fantastic party. Officers and civilians in pre-Napoleonic War costumes swirled about him in a magnificent, chandeliered ballroom. Looking down, he found his own uniform was the most impressive he'd found himself attired in thus far -- the elaborate costume of a non-commissioned officer of Tsar Paul I's own Gatchina Hussar regiment. Chekov estimated the time period at some point shortly before the turn of the nineteenth century. 

  


Spock was no longer anywhere in sight. However, a pretty, blonde-haired, young woman in a frilly white ballgown trimmed with ermine was directly in his line of vision. As if she felt his admiring eyes on her, she turned and smiled.

Remembering the science officer's warning, Chekov quickly looked away. It was too late, however. After a moment, the ensign felt a light touch on his shoulder.

"Good evening, corporal." From close up he could see the blonde had brilliant blue eyes. Her pale skin was flushed -- perhaps from dancing. 

Chekov had to clamp his teeth closed to keep from replying. After quickly checking in both directions for the Vulcan, he gave the girl a quick polite nod.

When she smiled, enchanting little dimples formed in her cheeks. 

To keep himself from becoming absorbed in this fact, he dutifully turned his attention back to the dancers in front of him. He half-heartedly hoped the girl would interpret this as an indication of disinterest on his part and move on. This didn't happen. She seemed quite content to stand beside him watching the crowd.

"Marvelous party, isn't it?" she said, in her honey-sweet voice. "The best this season, wouldn't you say?"

Keeping his eyes carefully forward, the ensign permitted himself another small nod. There couldn't be much harm in nodding, could there?

The girl seemed intrigued rather than rebuffed by his silence. Chekov tried to think of inoffensive ways to persuade her to leave... The only problem was that he didn't want her to leave. He desperately wanted to talk to her, to take her by her elegantly gloved hands and sweep her into the crowd of swirling dancers... 

The ensign sneaked a sideways glance at her only to find she'd been watching him the whole time. He quickly looked away, feeling fourteen different types of fool.

The girl laughed charmingly. "I don't think I've ever met a shy guardsman," she said, spreading a lacy fan. "Would you mind fetching a glass of punch for me, corporal?"

"No, of course not," Chekov answered, without pausing to think.

"Mr. Chekov..." A tall officer standing near the ensign turned, revealing upswept Vulcan eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spock," Chekov apologized quickly. "But it's so awkward... I can't simply stand here and ignore her."

"Ensign," the Vulcan began sternly, "I remind you that this is an illusion. You are not, in all probability, standing anywhere. You are probably still sitting in the repair capsule inside the astrological monitoring station."

Chekov didn't dare look at the girl, but wondered what she was making of all this. "Yes, sir."

"What seems to you to be the most innocent of actions in this illusory state, may be in actuality an action that could trigger the destruction of the monitoring unit and us with it."

"Yes, sir." Beyond Spock's shoulder, he could see the girl. She smiled as she waved a small good-bye with her gloved fingertips and mouthed the word, 'Later?'

"What can we do, sir?" Chekov asked, quickly bringing his eyes back to the Science Officer's face.

"I am going to resume my efforts to neutralize this illusion or telepathically contact the beings responsible," Spock answered. "You, Ensign, are to remain on your guard -- and as quiet and motionless as possible."

"Yes, sir." 

...When Chekov looked down at his boots, the scene changed again. He was now outside, in a wooded area. It was near dusk and a light rain was falling. He seemed to be completely alone this time -- perhaps on sentry duty. Looking behind him, the ensign could see the lights of an encampment in the distance.

He was wearing what looked to be the uniform of a cavalry soldier from the first World War. Judging from the relatively good condition of his equipment, it was still in the early stages of the war. A short version of the regular issue rifle was slung over his left shoulder and a dragoon _shashka_ was suspended from the sword belt over his right shoulder.

  


'Well, at least I won't be tempted to talk to anyone,' Chekov sighed to himself, pulling up the collar of his heavy overcoat.

The minutes dragged by. As he wiped freezing moisture off his nose and cheeks, the ensign reflected on how glad he was that starship navigators also didn't spend a great deal of duty time standing guard in the rain. Even in the gloom and drizzle, though, the Russian landscape was beautiful to him.

"I am encountering great difficulty in penetrating this illusion." What a second ago Chekov would have sworn was a tree was now Mr. Spock in a grey greatcoat. "Perhaps a more direct approach is called for. Where is the person to whom you were speaking?"

"Well, I..." As soon as Chekov began to try to think of a way to tell the Science Officer that he was no longer at the party where the girl had been, he was no longer standing in the woods.

Neither was he at the party he'd been at before. He was at a new party in a new location. Chekov was fairly sure he'd been in Moscow before. From the looks of the architecture, he was at the palace in St. Petersberg now. The uniforms were post-Napoleonic war.

'Of course,' he thought to himself. 'That explains the Petersberg location. Moscow burned during the war.'

He was now wearing a plain yet formal green uniform. The simplicity of the design was offset by the impressive collection of medals on his chest.

'Order of St. George, 4th class,' he identified the first one. 'Medal of 1812, Austrian Order of Maria Theresa, Prussian Iron Cross, Dutch Order of Wilhelm and Prussian 1813 and 1814 medals. My, I doubt the Tsar himself has more medals than this.'

  


"Ensign?"

"Well, sir..." Chekov stopped in the middle of formulating his explanation as to why the girl couldn't possibly be there. As improbable as it may have been, she _was_ there -- across the room from him. A different ballgown -- different hair -- but when she turned and smiled, it was the same smile. "She's behind you, sir."

"Summon her, please," Spock requested, then placed a restraining hand on the ensign's shoulder. "Moving as little as possible."

Feeling a little foolish, Chekov beckoned to the girl.

She seemed confused at first, looking about her, then putting a finger to her chest as if to say, "Who, me?"

Chekov nodded and repeated his gesture with an encouraging smile.

Whispered comments and darting glances followed the girl as she made her way towards them across the ballroom. Stopping a few feet in front of Chekov, she curtseyed deeply. "Your Highness."

The ensign felt his face coloring. 'My God,' he thought, embarrassed at whatever part of his subconscious that might have had a hand in creating this fantasy, 'I _am_ the Tsar.'

"Your Excellency." The girl's bow towards the Science Officer was less profound.

Spock reached down and pulled the girl up firmly by the arm. "I demand you discontinue this illusion immediately."

...The aghast look on the girl's face along with the rest of her and the ballroom around them dissolved into a strangely familiar fog. In front of the two _Enterprise_ officers now appeared what looked like a multi-colored, disembodied alien head.

"Melkotians!" Chekov gasped.

Spock nodded. "Quite."

"Aliens," the Melkotian said in a reverberating range of languages, "we mean you no harm."

"Then why have you assaulted us in this manner?" the Vulcan demanded.

"Assault? There has been no assault. When you crossed into Melkotian space, we assumed we were free to contact you."

"Melkotian space?" Chekov repeated. "This region is not claimed by any known power." 

"This area has been controlled by the Melkots for centuries without number." Somehow the alien's blank countenance and sepulchral tone gave its statement inarguable weight.

"Our intrusion into your territory was quite accidental," Spock explained. "The navigational equipment on this monitoring station is faulty. We were attempting to repair and return the unit to its proper coordinates."

The Melkot paused momentarily. "We understand."

"I am glad of that," Spock replied. "However _I_ do not understand why you have chosen to contact us in this manner."

"We have noted that the individual you call Ensign Chekov has a strong, irrational attachment to a certain territory surrounding the place of his birth. A similar sort of territorality has caused problems in Melkotian society. We were attempting to devise a circumstance that would test and explore the extent of his irrationality."

Chekov had to lift an eyebrow at being labelled irrational in such a weighty tone.

"As has been explained to you previously," Spock replied, unperturbed, "cultures of the Federation find uninvited, intrusive telepathy unethical and an unacceptable invasion of individual privacy."

"We find it educational." The Melkotian seemed implacable. "How did you find the experience, Ensign Chekov?"

"Well, no harm done," Chekov answered amiably, then catching a disapproving look from his superior, he hastily amended, "Of course, as Mr. Spock says, there are moral and ethical..."

"We respectfully request that you desist in such contact," Spock demanded coolly. "We will communicate with our ship and have this unit removed from your territory as soon as possible."

"As you wish."

The fog faded. Chekov found he was still strapped into a seat facing the computer monitor on the cramped station as he had been before. There was no sign from the progress of the cross-referencing search the computer was still carrying on that any time had passed.

Mr. Spock immediately turned in his seat hit the comm link button. "Spock to _Enterprise_."

"Kirk here. Problems, Mr. Spock?"

"It seems the monitoring station has inadvertently drifted into Melkotian space."

"Melkotian?" the captain's filtered voice replied. "This is free space on our charts."

"Nevertheless. I suggest tractor beams be applied and the station moved well out of this vicinity."

"Acknowledged, Mr. Spock." There was a slight pause as the captain gave the necessary orders. 

"I assume that there have been no reports of unusual incidents on the _Enterprise_?" Spock speculated.

"No." There was another pause. "Well, not unusual for a Christmas holiday. Why do you ask?"

"We experienced unannounced, intrusive telepathic contact with the Melkotians."

"Really? Any problems?"

"Other than Mr. Chekov's development of an acute case of homesickness..." A strong note of irony had entered the Vulcan's voice. "..We have suffered no ill-effects."

"Alright, we've got you in tow. You should be out of their range in a few minutes."

"Acknowledged. Spock out."

Chekov turned back to his work feeling vaguely guilty about the whole incident.

'Now, this _is_ irrational,' he reproved himself silently. 'The Melkotians were clearly in the wrong.'

Nagging doubts persisted, though. Had the Melkotians provoked and enhanced his longing for home as a part of their psychic experiment, or had his strong feelings of homesickness attracted them in the first place? Chekov had no answer for this. However, despite the fact that the Melkotians were gone, his homesickness was, if anything, worse.

The ensign sighed miserably.

There was a creaking sound from the chair behind him as the Science Officer turned with arms folded to confront him.

"Sir," Chekov began tentatively, casting a longing eye at the communications array. "This station is equipped with some very powerful communications equipment..."

There was not the slightest look of sympathy or understanding on his superior's face.

"It would be fairly easy to make a subspace call to Earth from here..." the ensign continued bravely.

"That would be a frivolous use of the equipment," the Vulcan informed him.

"Yes, sir," he replied, chastened.

Spock, however, did not immediately return to his work, but rather sat silently regarding the ensign for a moment.

Chekov endured this cold evaluative gaze unflinchingly, hoping for the sort of softening of hearts that happens only in Christmas stories.

The ensign never knew if it were the power of the season, the unsettling contact with the Melkotians... or simply the unpleasant prospect of putting up with him sighing for the next several hours, but after a moment the Vulcan said, "You may proceed, Mr. Chekov."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Chekov said, then ventured boldly, "And Merry Christmas, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow before turning back to his work. "Indeed, Mr. Chekov."

*** END ***


End file.
